


Vorta Guro 2018 Bingo.

by zombified_queer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Abuse, Accidental Voyeurism, Asphyxiation, Autopsies, Blood and Gore, Body Modification, Bondage, Broken Bones, Cannibalism, Character Death, Extremely Dubious Consent, Eye Trauma, Gen, Guro, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Procedures, Murder, Necrophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stabbing, Tasers, blunt force trauma, forced autocannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Pretty much what it says on the tin: A collection of deliciously gory, deranged, and horrific prompts for October.





	1. Bride of Ozymandias

**Author's Note:**

> All these prompts are based on a bingo card I've generated over on Tumblr @borg-apologist. If you want to see the card getting updated, follow me there.

_Field log. Kilana . . . Five? Five. Not that it matters. I've failed the Founders and I know I will be the last of my clones activated. I've stayed alive to bury my men. I don't expect to outlive them by much._

Kilana draws her knees up to her chest. All of her is rail-thin and the sand so ingrained in her skin that all of her feels like a living wound. She's starving, with the last of her rations gone and nothing seems remotely edible on this planet. 

Now, she loathes that the Founders made the Vorta so resilient.

She wonders if the death they would have given her would have been more merciful.

Every motion makes her shake with the effort it takes, but she only knows her hunger, the insistence of it thought the pain tapered off long ago. Kilana steps out into the hot son, feeling her pale skin roasting in the sun, baking slowly, basted in her own blood.

With each tentative step, she makes her way to the graves of her men, the crude piles of stone and sand she's created. They're hardly graves, really, just little memorials for the men so loyal to their gods. 

Kilana sinks to her knees in the sand, small and jagged pebbles digging into her knees, her hands as the sink onto the ground.

She brushes the sand and stone aside, each motion guided by her own desperation. 

The flesh of her First is already black and green with rot, his skin cracking from heat and decay. She retches at the thought of consuming him, bile leaving her throat raw. 

But she's so hungry it hurts again.

Kilana's so hungry she can't stop herself.

Vorta teeth are not meant for tearing skin from bone, but Kilana manages, a feral feeling taking over. Her teeth sink in, tearing flesh from bone, consuming the pus, the concealed blood, the rotten meat, all until there's nothing left of the First but bones and stains on the sand.

Taking a rock, she breaks open the bones, sucking out the marrow, finding it strangely sweet.

But just one isn't enough. 

She digs up the Second, swallowing down his decayed flesh, sucking down his marrow. The Third. The Fourth.

Halfway through the Fifth, her fullness creates a sharper pain than the ache of dull hunger. This time, the pain feels like a knife carving through her. 

After a shaking breath, she resumes her meal, fingers sinking into the skin, protecting it instinctively.

But the more she eats, the more insistent the pain grows, like the knife reaches deeper into her belly, the blade twisting. 

Something ruptures.

Her body won't respond, collapsing on the sand, eyes wide. Acidic pain blooms deep in her chest and she finds herself spasming, trying to retch out the pain.

But it’s lodged so firmly in her blood that all she can do is wait, feeling that pain eating away at every part of her inside, seasoning her in bile under the baking sun of this alien world.


	2. Interchangeable Parts

Diplomatic lines routinely have their appearance altered before activation. It's a simple nose job here, siphoning off some fat there, plumping some lips, a couple less ribs there for that delicate waistline other humanoids find so attractive.

This Weyoun, the technician notes, doesn't have eyes to standard. It's, perhaps, one of the more horrific beatifications because it's so involved. He grimaces and slips on the gloves to get started.

He'll never quite be used to that twitch, the phantom activation when you pull a clone to be worked on.

But once the clone settles back into that doll-like state of motionless, the technician sighs. Weyouns are fine works of art, even when they're not diplomats. They're perfect for the job, really, with their natural slenderness, their gentle complexions. They hardly ever really need major touching up. Hopefully this one doesn't fuck it up and make the next Weyoun a field supervisor or a scientist.

Pulling the eyes from their sockets is the worst part, the hardest to do since it has to be done so delicate and slow unless he wants to have viscous fluid seeping everywhere. Eyes, the technician marvels, especially Vorta eyes, are so easy to burst like overripe fruits.

Severing the nerves is easier, though it still bleeds furiously before they're properly tended to.

Now it's just a matter of replacing the eyes with newer ones with more violet to the irises, though it'll take a few weeks before they're ready. For now, the technician can relax, knowing the worst of it is over.

He takes the removed eyes, holding one between his fingers, marvelling at the blue irises, getting a small jar to preserve them in. Perhaps it's selfish to want to keep these little trophies, but it's a source of pride knowing he fixes—no, adjusts—these small things the Founders overlook, the marks of Vorta being uplifted, even before they have their first conscious thoughts, before they understand the continuity they carry.

He plasters tape over the jar, scrawling "Weyoun 5" in thick, black marker. He fills the jar with preserving fluid, placing the first eye carefully, watching it. 

The second one ruptures between his gloves fingers and he swears, starting the process of cleaning up.

He places the jar in the small cubby he's allowed for personal articles in this small work space.

The single eye fixes the technician with an icy stare as he puts the blind clone back in circulation to wait. The waiting is the second hardest part of the job.


	3. I Spit on Your Desiccated Remains

Brunt's not used to delicate hands on his lobes, stifling a grunt of pleasure. Really, he's going to have to look into buying a Vorta for himself, especially one so well-versed in oo-mox.

"Bless your hands."

"You like that?" Keevan purrs, pushing Brunt back onto a sofa.

It's rough enough to keep the Ferengi enticed, eyes wide at the Vorta. Keevan straddles the Ferengi, settling a warm weight in his lap.

"You're gonna love this," Keevan assures Brunt, fingers ghosting along the Ferengi's lobes.

Brunt groans, closing his eyes and surrendering to the Vorta's hands. He doesn't even mind when Keevan pulls off his coat, tossing it aside. Those hands are back, massaging just right, drawing grunts of delight out of the Ferengi.

Keevan laughs. Brunt doesn't even notice as Keevan pulls the blade out from behind his back, the Vorta leaning in to laugh softly, making the oo-mox just that much more enticing. He doesn't catch the way the blade clicks open, Keevan grinning, teeth and steel sharp in the low lights.

It's a single stab, Keevan throwing his whole weight behind it, feeling the delicate knife hit bone, pulling up with as much force as he can until the blade snaps free of the handle somewhere between ribs.

The look on Brunt's face is worth every second of oo-mox Keevan's had to dole out. Keevan gets out of Brunt's lap, sighing.

"You've made a mess of me again," Keevan notes, looking at himself. "You're truly wicked."

He raids Brunt's wardrobe, appreciating the Ferengi's close enough in measurements that the Vorta can feel comfortable stepping out in the Liquidator's clothes. His own are disposed of, trashed beyond recognition as even fabric.

He keeps the broken knife handle, a memento and reminder he's not done yet.

* * *

"Have we met?"

Keevan looks down at the black hole he's been nursing for the past few minutes, grateful the Founders didn't give him a sense of taste. Demure and coy, Keevan says, "I don't believe we have."

"I just thought . . ." Gaila looks the Vorta over, fixated more on Keevan's body than his face.

All according to plan.

"I think we should get more acquainted," Keevan says. "I've been so fascinated by Ferengi."

Gaila lowers his guard and the knife he's been tapping on the bar counter. "Yeah. I bet you would be."

* * *

Keevan grins, stripping out of his vivid coat. "I'm going to give you something to remember for the rest of your life."

"Oh yeah?" Gaila asks.

Keevan hums. "Can you trust me?"

"I guess so."

Keevan retrieves the rough rope he's picked for this purpose. "I like to tie up my lovers."

Gaila grins. "You're a kinky little fucker."

Keevan smiles. "Your wrists."

Gaila lets Keevan tie him up The rope looping around his wrists, around his neck, tied tight. He opens his mouth to protest, but Keevan shoves him backwards, onto the bed. Keevan straddles the Ferengi, smiling dangerously at him.

"Don't tell me you've never done this before," Keevan teases, hands pressing down on Gaila's chest.

"N—"

Keevan pulls on the ends of the rope, cutting Gaila off. Keevan gives him some slack, letting the Ferengi breathe. Keevan settles himself on Gaila's chest, pulling again while settling his weight on Gaila's chest, forcing him to strangle faster.

The more Gaila thrashes under him, the tighter the rope around his neck becomes. He's unable to buck Keevan off, forced to look up at his Vorta killer.

"Remember me now?" Keevan hisses.

Gaila, between frantic gasps, nods like his neck's broken.

"Suck it, bitch."

* * *

"A black hole," Keevan orders. "Please."

Quark mixes up the drink, pausing as he sets it down on the bar. "Keevan."

"Quark."

The Ferengi leans in, almost close enough to kiss the Vorta. "That's an expensive suit."

"Worth ten times its weight in latinum," Keevan answers.

Quark hums. Keevan leans in, sinking his teeth into Quark's lower lip hard enough to draw blood.


	4. Vivisection

The newly-activated clones can't feel the autopsy process. Once the old clones are deceased, their neurons stop firing, the memory implants no longer interface with the brain. They don't pass anything onto their descendant past what's been saved.

"Stop cutting me open!"

The activation technician sighs. It's no use explaining it to the new Keevan clone. He hasn't stopped screaming for hours.

Keevan pulls of his shirt, nearly tearing the thin fabric, traces the I-shaped incision, the great hole through his predecessor's chest. 

Keevan wraps an arm around his abdomen, as if to hold his organs in. His eyes are wide, desperate. "It hurts."

The technician pulls the shirt back onto the clone, buttoning it roughly. He might be defective, the activation technician notes. Though he might have something valuable from the Federation-held space station, would it be worth it if he keeps screaming like that?

But Keevan’s eyes go wider, his stare blank. The screaming stops. He shivers and the activation technician makes a note to raise the room’s temperature, just slightly, just enough to be more comfortable.

He bites his lip, stifling a groan. Perhaps some growing pains, nothing more. It’s common in some lines, to have some discomfort in the muscles, the joints. 

“There!”

The technician pauses, blinking.

“Ah! My heart!”

Keevan’s expression borders on lewd, perverse. Decidedly defective. Those fingers that had wandered over his unmarred flesh move lower, dipping just beneath the waistband of his trousers. “Right there!”

The technician, more for themself than for Keevan’s sake, looks away. It’s dirty how some of these clones behave, so animalistic to abuse themselves like that. The Founders had made them perfect without that glaring defect. They note this Keevan clone isn’t right, that it should be scrapped and to start over with a new one.

And he moans so openly, the technician has to step out of the room.

“More! Founders, right there! Yes!”

He keens climax and the technician authorizes the termination of this new Keevan.


	5. P = E/t

The device—smooth, black plastic except for the electrodes, two small prongs of silver—goes off in Dukat's hand. It's loud, snapping, and the room fills with blue light for a fraction of a second. The Cardassian hums in appreciation. The Vorta stares at the device, eyes fixed on it in cold fascination. Weyoun's ears ring.

"You're sure about this?" Dukat asks, looking over the device, careful not to set it off again.

"Of course," Weyoun purrs. His wrists are bound above his head and he makes a show of arching his back, displaying his nude form for the Cardassian. 

Dukat strides across the room, each step heavy. There's a predatory grin that graces his face as he slides a hand over the Vorta's chest, claws lightly grazing that smooth, white skin, searching for all the sensitive spots. 

But Weyoun, despite the white cord around his wrists, tying him to the bedposts, won't give any tells. Instead, he stares, lips slightly parted (lips! how Dukat loves lips on other races, the softness!), breathing deeply and evenly. Stoic.

Dukat presses the metal to the Vorta's hip, shocking him. 

Weyoun's muscles contract unconsciously, back arching, arms stretched out. When the electricity stops, the Vorta's breathing is heavier, ragged. He looks up at Dukat.

"Doesn't that feel nice?" Dukat purrs.

Weyoun opens his mouth, tries to speak, tries to find that defiance in himself. But the electricity sings along Weyoun's nerves, making him alive in a way he's never been before. He can only nod shamefully.

"I knew you were a kinky bastard," Dukat purrs. He rubs the spot he's shocked, apologetic in the gentleness of his touch. "You remember the safeword?"

"I do."

"What if I didn't honour it?" 

Dukat's eyes are cold now, merciless. Weyoun struggles against the white cord, only succeeding in getting himself a nasty ropeburn. Dukat presses the taser between the Vorta's between the Vorta's ribs, shocking again, a gentle zap that makes the Vorta jump. Then another of those short shocks to the neck, Weyoun yelping.

"Naprem!"

"No," Dukat says calmly, taking the Vorta's face in one hand. "Stick out your tongue."

"No."

With an audible crack, Dukat breaks Weyoun's jaw in his hand, forcing the Vorta's mouth open. The taser's pushed past the Vorta's lips, the taste of metal flooding his mouth. It hums, vibrating traitorously between his teeth. Dukat's hands are held up, the Vorta doing his best, in spite of the pains in his jaw, to keep the taser between his teeth. 

The Cardassian's hand goes between the Vorta's thighs, fingers tracing his slit. "You're getting off on this."

He can't protest and hold the taser between his broken jaws, so Weyoun narrows his eyes. He considers kicking the Cardassian, rolling off the bed and crawling out of Dukat's quarters.

But he doubts he'd do more than upset the filthy lizard lecher.

Dukat grins. The Cardassian nudges the Vorta's thighs apart, middle finger sliding into Weyoun without warning, a dull ache of violation. Dukat doesn't seem to mind, content to toy with the Vorta, fingering him carefully. 

"You're too tight," Dukat hisses, though he watches his finger being taken to the base in the Vorta's body. "I won't hurt you."

Weyoun would laugh if he wasn't in pain from holding the taser and Dukat playing with him. 

Dukat doesn't seem to care, only fixated on fingering the Vorta, the rough violation, the way Dukat's fingers shine with the Vorta's natural lubrication. But those thick, rough, scaled fingers actually make Weyoun moan, the taser falling from between the Vorta's jaws.

Dukat looks at the taser, taking it in his free hand with a disappointed sigh. His other hand pauses in playing with the Vorta to rest on Weyoun's thigh.

He's shocked so quick and hard he can't protest against Dukat. 

When the Vorta goes limp and quiet, collapsed on the sheets. Dukat bites the Vorta's neck while he climbs on top of Weyoun, thrusting into him. Using the taser again, to Dukat's delight, makes the Vorta unconsciously tighten up around his cock.


	6. Until Death Do Us Part

Yelgrun gives the croquet mallet a few experimental swings while First Chyrza'Klan watches the arc of the wood in the Vorta's hands. The Jem'Hadar doesn't struggle against the rope or the chair he's tied to.

Yelgrun pauses, looking up at the Jem'Hadar. "It's such a unique game, croquet. Very cultured. Refined."

It's not a tone that invites conversation.

"Do you love me, Chyrza?"

First Chyrza'Klan blinks. He doesn't, not really, but he doesn't think Yelgrun would react well to that. 

"Chryza?" 

In one fluid motion, the mallet goes up and over the Vorta's shoulders, resting there. First Chyrza'Klan says nothing, simply watching the Vorta stare at him.

"I expect an answer, Chyrza'Klan."

First Chyrza'Klan blinks. He doesn't say a word.

The mallet becomes a blur that becomes a crack against First Chyza'Klan's knee. He cries out, his knee broken. Yelgrun swings the mallet up over his shoulder, bringing it down against Chyrza'Klan's knee again, making the Jem'Hadar cry out.

"So you can talk," Yelgrun hums.

The mallet brushes against Chyrza'Klan's hand, Yelgrun raising the mallet again.

"I hate you."

"I figured," Yelgrun says. The mallet comes down, breaking fingers. And then it's over the Vorta's head again, brought down over and over. "I should have demoted you. Made you Seventh, maybe."

It takes a moment for Chyrza'Klan to realize it's his bones sticking out of his skin, his blood running over the arm of the chair, dripping onto the carpet. 

Yelgrun pulls a fragment of Chyrza'Klan's hand, tearing it off, and shoving it into the Jem'Hadar's mouth, holding his mouth closed. "Swallow for me."

Chyrza'Klan can feel the snot running down his face, the bone clicking against his teeth, trying to spit it out, but Yelgrun's hands are too strong, holding his mouth closed, forcing him to swallow.

"Oh, good boy," Yelgrun purrs. "I can teach you to be so good."

Chyrza'Klan expects to be untied, to be forced to service the Vorta orally, but instead, Yelgrun produces a handkerchief, cleaning the mucus and spit from the Jem'Hadar's face. 

"I want you to love me," Yelgrun says. "To be so devoted to me you would trade my life for yours."

"Heresy," Chyrza'Klan says.

Yelgrun takes up the mallet, swinging it into Chyrza'Klan's chest, knocking the air out of him. Chyrza'Klan gasps as the mallet connects again with his ribs. He can feel something break, bone lancing his organs. It's the dull ache of being beaten and the sharp pain of being stabbed.

"Please."

Yelgrun pauses. For a moment, there's a brief flash of tenderness in those violet eyes. But the mallet connects again, making Chyrza'Klan cough, spraying black blood-spittle onto the Vorta's face. 

"I wanted you to love me, Chyrza'Klan." Yelgrun pauses in his swings. "But now I've broken you."

"You could fix me too," Chyrza'Klan says, coughing up more blood. It's warm on his lips. "I've seen the Federation do it." 

"I couldn't," Yelgun says. "But, I'll make it quick."

He swings again, the mallet connecting with Chyrza'Klan's cheek, something cracking in the Jem'Hadar's skull. Yelgrun rears back, swinging again, the Jem'Hadar's head hanging at an odd angle. 

The mallet's dropped, clattering loudly. A single rattle escapes the Jem'Hadar's chest, blood dripping freely from his mouth. Yelgrun takes the Jem'Hadar's face in both hands, kissing him.

"We could have had something special." Yelgrun lets go of the body.

He unfastens the Jem'Hadar's trousers, Yelgun taking Chryza'Klan's cock in hand, the flesh still warm. Yelgrun strips himself down, making Chyrza'Klan's spit work as lube.

For hours, Yelgrun makes love to the Jem'Hadar, crying out his name over and over while the blood dries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if you read this far congrats! I applaud your strong stomach.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments. This work is complete and you can see what the finished bingo card looks like on borg-apologist (dot) tumblr (dot) com.


End file.
